B 


A     R  H  Y  M  E  . 


BENXEVILLE    OTTOMAR    HOFFMAN, 

A  Pennsylvania  Teuton. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SNARL  OF  A  CYNIC; 


A    RHYME. 


BEXXEVILLE    OTTOMAR    HOFFMAX, 
A  PENNSYLVANIA  TEUTON. 


EPHRATA,  LAN.  CO.,  PA. : 

P.  MARTIN   HKITLKK, 

Printer  and  Publisher  for  the  Author. 

1868, 


ENTBRKD  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year 
1868,  by  P.  MARTIN  HEITLER,  in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the 
District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for  the  Eastern 
District  of  Pennsylvania. 


PS 


MY  FIRST  REASON  FOR  RHYMING. 


[My  second  reason  for  rhyming,  of  a  serious  cast,  will  be 
given,  if  opportunity  offers,  on  a  future  occasion.] 


|OLKS  say,  that  I,  nor  bard  nor  dunce, 

Will  rhyme;— I  answer  without  spleen, 
A  village  bard  did  hire  me  once 

To  turn  the  crank  of  his  machine. 
That  fitm  I  never  can  forget, 
The  thing  is  sticking  in  me  yet. 


1125585 


PRINTER'S  INTRODUCTION. 


It  may  be  considered  fatuity  for  an  obscure  country  prin- 
ter, to  undertake  to  publish  a  work  in  rhyme,  when  wealthy 
city  publishers,  with  extensive  connections  and  influence, 
hesitate  to  undertake  a  work  of  the  same  character,  unless 
it  is  by  an  author  of  established  reputation.  The  printer 
has  undertaken  the  present  work  at  his  own  pecuninary  risk. 
Should  it  prove  an  utter  failure,  there  will  be  some  pecuni- 
ary loss  to  the  printer.  Although  he  is  no  opulent  country 
gentleman,  yet  he  is  sufficiently  able  to  abide  the  loss  that 
may  occur ;  and  thereafter  smoke  his  cigar  with  equanimity, 
entertaining  no  feeling  of  regret,  except  what  may  arise 
from  his  sympathy  with  the  author.  Such  failure  may  teach 
the  author,  that  if  he  attempts  to  enter  the  temple  of  litera- 
ture hereafter,  lie  should  select  a  better  usher  than  ati 
obscure  country  printer. 

The  printer  thought,  perchance  the  public  might  be 
inclined  to  purchase  and  read  a  work  by  one  of  that  class  of 
native  Americans,  known  as  the  "  Pennsylvania  Dutch,"  a 
peculiar  class  of  people,  of  peculiar  habits  and  customs,  and 
perhaps  of  peculiar  turns  of  thought ;— perchance  that  the 
rhymings  of  a  "  Pennsylvania  Teuton,"  might  be  a  novelty 
to  the  reading  public,  and  thus,  by  a  stroke  of  fortune, 
remunerate  the  printer  for  his  otherwise  hazardous  under- 
taking. 

In  various  parts  of  the  «  Snarl,"  the  printer  has  sup- 
pressed in  all,  eleven  stanzas. 


SNARL  OF  A  CYNIC, 


Ah  !  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 
The  steep  where  Fame's  proud  temple  shines  afar ; 
Ah !  who  can  tell  how  many  a  soul  sublime 
Has  felt  the  influence  of  malignant  star, 
And  waged  with  fortune  an  eternal  war ; 
Checked  by  the  scoff  of  Pride,  by  Envy's  frown, 
And  Poverty's  unconquerable  bar, 
In  life's  low  vale  remote  has  pined  alone, 
Then  dropped  into  the  grave,  unpitied  and  unknown! 
BEATTIE'S  MINSTREL. 


A 


eve,  when  Winter  ruled  as  king, 
The  snow-flake  fell  on  land  and  town, 
Like  feather  from  a  seraph's  wing, 

Slow  dropping  down. 


8NARL   OF 

That  winter  eve  of  falling  snow 

I  climbed  the  mountain's  craggy  slope, 
To  visit  there  a  man  of  woe, — 

A  misanthrope. 

The  world  had  somehow  used  him  ill, 

He  had  no  money  and  no  wife, 
No  friend  except  a  whisky  swill, — 
Oh  hitter  life! 

A  pale-faced,  unsuccessful  man, 
And  of  a  sullen,  cynic  mood, 
Whose  mind  to  much  to  reverie  ran 
In  solitude. 

His  sullen  scowls  with  anger  rife 

I  faced ; — my  wish  to  ease  his  dole, 
To  pour  some  sunshine  on  his  life, 
Balm  in  his  soul. 


My  wish  was  vain  that  whiter  day, 

For  hitter  feelings  stirred  his  soul, 
And  thus  he  poured  his  cynic  lay, 

And  rhyme  of  dole  :• 


"  Your  home  's  a  rich  manorial  hall, 
Your  study  room  is  snug  and  cosy, 
You've  health  and  fortune,  friends  and  all, — 
Your  life  is  rosy. 

I,  living  in  this  cabin  rude 

With  you  to-night  will  hold  a  parle, 
And  in  my  misanthropic  mood 

Must  let  me  snarl. 


You  drink  rich  wines  of  France  and  Spain, 

With  love  and  pleasure  you  are  frisky, 
But  I,  to  deaden  thought  and  pain, 

Drink  cheap,  bad  whisky. 

The  aspirations  of  the  boy, 

The  lofty  hopes  of  manhood's  day, 

My  splendid  dreams  of  fame  and  joy 

Have  passed  away. 

I  dream  no  more  of  household  glee, 
Of  joys  of  offspring,  home  or  wife, 
Alas !   sad  destiny  for  me, 

Rude,  sordid  life. 


The  confidence  of  youth  is  gone, 

My  faith  in  manhood  passed  away, 
I  see  the  false,  and  those  who  fawn, 
Must  gain  the  day. 

And  wealth  is  gained  by  venal  men 

With  tricks  of  trade  profound  and  sly, 
Who  know  to  fawn  and  cringe,  and  when 
To  tell  a  lie. 

Through  slimy  ways  without  fatigue, 

Through  crooked  paths  in  thieves'  disguises, 
The  worldly  shrewd  by  keen  intrigue 

Will  grasp  Life's  prizes. 

The  honest  man  whose  soul  hath  scorned 

The  guile  of  those  whose  hearts  are  rotten, 
Must  live  obscure  and  die  unmourned, 
And  be  forgotten. 

The  demagogue  hath  honor's  post, — 

How  smooth  his  tongue !  how  false  his  heart ! 
That  base-born  wretch  can  use  the  most 
Consummate  art. 


In  every  land  beneath  the  sky 

The  demagogue  's  a  curse  and  bane ; — 
'T  is  mild  to  say  his  honesty 

Is  tramontane. 

When  burns  within  the  brain,  a  mind 

Repressed  by  poverty  or  fate. 

To  preach  content  is  idle  wind. 

An  idle  prate. 

Men  preach  content,  but  all  in  vain  ; 

'T  will  do  for  an  unlettered  hind. 
But  not  when  seethes  within  the  brain 
Immortal  mind. 

Who  sing  content  and  rural  ease, 

The  charms  that  poor  men's  cots  embower  ? 
They  are  the  men  whom  wealth  doth  please, 
The  men  of  power. 

When  such  superior  joy  's  beheld 

In  poor  men's  huts,  't  is  strange  the  great 
Will  not  forsake  until  compelled 

Their  splendid  state. 


10 


Men  live  on  earth  for  happiness, 

And  if  high  station  gives  it  not. 
Then  leave  the  palace  tenantless, 
And  take  the  cot. 


Let  sage  philosophers  forbear 

To  preach  content,  since  it  is  known 
Their  neighbor's  woes  they  better  bear 
Than  griefs  their  own. 

But 't  is  all  humbug, — part  of  that 
Machinery  which  holds  the  boor, 
A  subject  to  th'aristocrat 

Because  he  's  poor. 

Alone  through  long,  drear  winter  nights, 

I  sit  and  mope  the  hours  away, 
While  men  in  cities  see  fair  sights, 
Or  hear  the  play. 

No  pavement  clean  for  vulgar  swains, 

Or  lighted  street  on  winter  nights, 
But  miry  roads  and  gloomy  lanes 

For  rustic  wights. 


11 


These  long,  long  winter  nights  are  lone, 
To  poor  men  that  on  mountains  dwell, 
When  o'er  the  roads  snow  drifts  are  blown, 
Impassable. 

They  cannot  reach  the  distant  inn 
For  rustic  gossip,  talk  and  joke, 
Amid  its  fumes  of  rum  and  gin 

And  potent  smoke. 

There  pipes  are  smoked  by  each  rude  clown 

As  he  the  smutty  jests  doth  bandy, 
Pipes  strong  in  smell,  they  would  knock  down 
A  Boston  dandy. 

We  poor  are  knaves,  or  fools,  or  liars, 

Our  life  a  desert  in  eclipse, 
Ours,  dingy  rooms,  gross  food,  bad  fires, 
And  tallow  dips. 

Contentment  preachers  teach  not  me, 

While  snug  in  your  warm  cosy  rooms, 
You  read  fine  books,  fine  pictures  see, 
Mid  rare  perfumes. 


12 


The  dainty  bards  in  song  and  lay 

With  gold  pens  praise  their  lowly  neighbor 
Who  toils  and  sweats,  and  bravely  say 
They  honor  labor ; — 

But  ride  in  coaches,  idle  still, 

To  work  too  lazy,  or  not  able, — 
But  will  they  groom  the  horses  ?    will 

They  clean  the  stable? 

And  do  they  know  the  poor  man's  lot 

So  cosy  in  their  splendid  state  ? — 
They  talk  and  fume — the  worth  is  what  ? 
Mere  foolish  prate. 

This  prate — though  there  are  fools  who  cheer  it, 

I  dread  it  more  than  spook  or  comet ; — 
it  makes  my  belly  ache  to  hear  it, 

And  I  could  vomit. 


Your  parson  says  he  honors  labor, 

With  mien  impressive  and  demure, 
But  does  he  help  his  lowly  neighbor 
To  cart  manure. 


13 


Ah  no !    such  work  is  quite  too  sweaty, 

On  sweltering  days  his  ease  in  shade  is, 
His  soft  white  hands  are  very  pretty, 
Just  like  a  lady's. 

In  his  snug  room,  he  'ill  pick  the  spice 
From  Horace,  Yirgil,  Caesar,  Livy, 
But  ah !  his  nose  is  far  too  nice 

To  clean  the  privy. 

We  poor  are  drunkards,  sots  and  scum, 

The  rich  are  not  so  lowly  sunk, 
On  potent  brandies  they  become. 
Genteely  drunk. 

The  poor  receive  foul  jibes  and  spurns, 
And  vulgar  shifts  the  bard  annoys, — 
It  scathed  th'imperial  mind  of  Burns, 
And  sapped  his  joys 

'T  is  sad  to  feel,  that  kings  of  rhyme, 

Proud  bards,  the  godlike  men  of  earth, 
Should  be  so  poor  in  their  life's  prime, 
And  feel  a  dearth ; 


14 


A  dearth  of  wealth  that  dunces  hold, 

That  wealth  that  bards  know  how  t'  enjoy ,- 
Yet  strange  that  gold,  to  fool  is  doled, 
Or  idiot  boy. 

The  poor  with  toils  are  sore  and  spent, 
The  healthy  rich  have  amplest  leisure 
To  drink  from  fountains  of  content 

And  wells  of  pleasure. 

In  shining  carriage,  velvet  lined, 

The  rich  man  drives  the  pleasant  road 
O'er  hill  and  dale  with  blissful  mind, 
Dressed  a  la  mode. 


Poor  men  in  rough  and  ragged  clothes, 

Must  toil  through  miry  ways  of  Time, 
Ungarlanded  by  blooms  of  prose 

Or  wreathes  of  rhyme. 

Fair  maidens  smile  and  greetings  pay 

To  rich  men  riding  through  the  park, 
But  at  poor  men  in  miry  way 

The  dogs  will  bark. 


15 


Some  say  the  rich  have  little  measure 

Of  joy  and  health ;— 'tis  false  I  wot— 
The  rich  have  means  for  health  and  pleasure 
The  poor  have  not. 

When  rich  men  have  nor  joy  nor  health, 

The  fault  is  not  in  stars  or  elves, 
Or  destiny  or  precious  wealth, — 

'T  is  in  themselves. 

There 's  wear  and  tear  of  life  and  health, 
And  sickening  trades  the  poor  destroy, 
So  that  the  happy  sons  of  wealth 

May  earth  enjoy. 

The  rich  man  reads  in  healthful  air 
Amid  the  mountain's  cool  retreat, 
Or  in  high  room  on  easy  chair, 
Or  arbor  seat. 

The  plodding  trades  are  but  a  fen, 

Where  foul  diseases  all  are  rife ; — 
Statistics  show  that  gentlemen 

Have  longest  life. 


16  SNABL  OF 

The  gentleman  is  unconfined 

With  God's  pure  air  for  inspiration ; 
He  uses  limbs,  and  uses  mind 

In  moderation. 


'T  is  varied  exercise  and  mirth 

Developes  strong-limbed  cavalieros, 

Brings  out  the  strongest  men  of  earth, 

Her  stalwart  heroes. 

'T  is  not  in  health  the  poor  are  strongest, 

They  cannot  choose  work's  proper  measure, 
The  gentleman  doth  live  the  longest 

With  work  and  pleasure. 

The  rich  are  straight,  erect  in  pose, 

No  stooping  work  for  sons  of  wealth, — 
And  then  well  dressed,  in  clean  fine  clothes — 
How  good  for  health ! 

I  would  be  rich,  so  I  could  dare 

The  mountain  heights  to  make  me  strong, 
So  I  might  bloom  in  light  and  air 

The  whole  day  long. 


17 


I  would  be  rich,  so  I  could$gloat 

On  paintings  and  fine  pictured  books, 
Have  fountains,  vases  and  a  boat 

To  skim  the  brooks. 

I  would  be  rich,  for  explorations 

Of  glens  and  nooks  and  mountain  sprin 
And  fanciful  investigations 

Of  dainty  tilings. 

I  would  be  rich,  so  I  could  roam 

O'er  pleasant  lands  of  old  renown, 
To  see  cathedral  spire  or  dome, 

In  some  old  town, 


Or  ancient  castles  by  the  Khine, 
Or  galleries  of  wondrous  art, 
Or  mountain  convent,  holy  shrine, 
Or  sea-side  mart. 


Or  in  Manhattan  write  my  verse 

To  tickle  maids  or  stalwart  men, 
Write  roundelays,  both  sweet  and  terse, 
This  done,  and  then 


For  relaxation  seek  iny  cronies, 

Or  else  some  hours  before  't  is  dark. 
In  shining  pfaeton  drive  my  ponies 

Through  Central  Park. 

To  rich  men  all  respect  is  due, 

Their  garb  and  gold  fair  maids  bewitch,- 
And  for  judicial  justice  too, 

One  should  be  rich. 


I  would  be  rich  with  power  to  bless, 

To  help  the  poor  in  all  their  need, — 
O  heavenly  joy  the  fatherless, 

To  clothe  and  feed ! 


But  more  than  all,  I  would  be  rich, 
To  help  true  genius  in  his  gloom, 
To  place  his  name  in  fame's  proud  niche, 
And  loftiest  room. 

Poor  men  must  work,  nor  stop  to  sit, 
At  times  propitious  for  romance ; — 
But  wealthy  poets  may  permit 

Their  mind  to  glance 


19 


Through  Fancy's  realms  and  Memory's  rooms, 

And  through  Imaginations  halls, 
When  witching,  sunny  light  illumes 
The  frescoed  walls. 


I  would  not  lose,  if  fate  were  kind, 

One  glorious  day  beneath  the  sun, 
And  not  like  servant  cribbed,  confined, 
In  kitchen  dun. 


The  poor  men  are  debarred  by  fate 

From  possible  and  actual  lives, 
From  travel,  pageants,  lore,  estate, 

And  pleasant  drives. 

The  rich  man  walks  by  fragrant  meads, 

By  shady  woods  or  clover  blooms, 
Or  in  arm-chair  his  paper  reads 

Mid  well  lit  rooms. 

Poor  men  must  work  mid  damps  and  chills. 

Mid  nauseous  smells  as  foul  as  tombs, 
By  scorching  fires,  or  dusty  mills, 
Or  stifling  rooms. 


20  SNARL  OF 

Must  stand  with  danger  front  to  front 

In  painting  tall  cathedral  spires, 
Or  in  the  war  must  stand  the  hrunt 
Of  foemen's  fires. 


Steam-engines  may  explode,  or  fate 

May  strike  with  rank  and  poisoned  air, 
Or  mines  cave  in  to  suffocate 

The  toilers  there. 

On  land  and  sea  the  rich  are  West, 
For  when  by  spicy  isles  we  float, 
The  rich  beneath  silk  awnings  rest — 
I  row  the  boat. 


And  from  the  deck  the  rich  behold 

The  arching  sky  or  rolling  waves, 
But  we  poor  devils  in  the  hold 

Are  galley-slaves. 

Victuals  and  clothes  are  bought  with  money, 

And  various  joys  on  it  dependent ; 
Thus  rich  men's  jokes  are  always  funny, 
Their  wit  resplendent. 


21 


Prints,  pageants,  pomps,  the  rich  can  see, 

Hear  operas,  plays  and  farces, 
We  poor  men  toil  and  starve,  and  we 
May  kiss  their 

'Tis  so  ordained,  as  you  conceive, 

One  wears  a  crown,  one  bears  a  thong ; — 
Perhaps,  perhaps,  but  I  believe 

There 's  something  wrong. 
/ 

The  world 's  bewitched  by  money's  glare, 

No  matter  how  he  did  amass  it, 

The  knave  is  honored  everywhere 

If  he  but  has  it. 

E'en  villages  fond  greetings  give, 

And  welcomings  as  sweet  as  honey, 

To  those  who  come  with  them  to  live 

With  lots  of  money. 

The  city's  dainty  dames  confound  us, 

And  shrink  from  us  the  sordid  poor ; 
The  vulgar  odors  that  surround  us, 
They  can't  endure 


22 


Proud  fashion's  belle,  th'aristocrat, 

May  sneer  at  country  pans  arid  kiltl™,  * 
Though  proud  her  mouth,  yet  into  that 
She  puts  the  victuals. 

Your  queenly  belle  in  all  the  climes 

From  far  Alaska  to  Chaldea, 
Like  vulgar  girls  will  have  sometimes 
A  diarrhoea. 


Well  dressed  and  rich,  1  would  not  be 

The  butt  of  any  damsel's  snickerings, 
But  more  than  all,  I  would  be  free 

From  sixpence  bickerings. 

The  poor  have  brawls  for  little  things, 

And  which  a  sixpence  would  set  right ; — 
Necessity  brings  quarrelings, 

For  life  they  fight. 


*  The  Cynic  here  followed  the  vulgar  pronounciation, 
no  doubt  to  render  the  rhyme  perfect.  The  Lexicographers 
spell  and  pronounce  it  differently. 


23 


These  vulgar  strifes  the  poor  endure 

In  villages  without  remissness, 
Where  Mrs.  Grundy  dwells  secure, 

And  hath  much  business, 

Is  worm-wood  to  a  soul  refined 

That  rasps  the  spirit  quite  away, 
That  lowers  the  standard  of  the  mind 
And  glooms  the  day. 

The  wit  is  trite,  and  lame  and  tame, 

Of  your  unmoneyed  village  dandy, 

Who  says,  that  poverty  's  no  shame, 

Though  quite  unhandy. 

Poverty  yields  no  pleasing  gifts, 

Its  toilsome  sameness  rives  and  tires, 
It  hath  compelled,  penarious  shifts, 

And  cramped  desires. 

Envy  and  spite  in  force  pervade 

The  hamlet's  lowly  ranks  of  life, 
And  chickens,  pigs,  that  lots  invade, 

Produce  great  strife. 


24 


—  He  turned  from  me  as  from  a  spoiler, 
As  though,  in  his  rude  mountain  den, 
Some  poor,  imaginary  toiler 

Were  present  then. 

He  turned  from  me  with  haughtiness, 

And  souring  memories  o'er  him  broke — 
He  seemed  to  swell  with  bitterness, 

And  thus  he  spoke : — 

"  You  carried  hod  on  sweltering  days 
To  build  a  house  for  you  now  shut, 
And  tired,  at  night  through  alley-ways, 
Slunk  to  your  hut. 

That  house  hath  alcoves  and  recesses, 

Bay-windows,  where  the  soul  is  fraught 
With  poems  full  of  tendernesses, 

And  fragrant  thought. 

Amid  the  arbors,  still  and  shaded, 
Upon  some  tranquil  afternoon, 
What  wondrous  poems  could  be  braided 
In  dreamy  June. 


25 


There,  in  that  mansion  proud  and  gay, 

Poor  toiler,  see  the  hundred  lights ! 
By  outside  views,  see  pomp's  array 
On  gala  nights ! 

You  dare  not  tread  those  carpets  soft, 

Nor  talk  beneath  the  chandeliers ; 
Poor  toiler !  there,  you  would  be  scoffed, 
A  thing  for  jeers. 

Yes,  gaze  upon  the  maidens  there, 

Who  waltz  amid  the  parlor's  glare, 

Then  back  to  your  rude  hut  to  share 

Its  want  and  care. 


Back  to  your  wife,  and  tell  your  freaks, 

What  you  so  sneakingly  have  seen, 
And  get  her  hate,  as  her  heart  speaks — 
'  It  might  have  been.' 

We  poor  men  toil  and  sweat,  for  which 

We  get  the  world's  disdain  and  spurnings, 
And  the  result  is  that  the  rich 

Enjoy  the  earnings. 


Can  this  be  right ?  O  heaven!   I  plead, 
'T  is  not  your  work,  but  management 
Of  hireling  priests  of  every  creed 

Who  preach  content. 

And  if  the  poor,  who  are  the  masses, 

But  knew  then-  right,  and  dared  assert  it, 
This  earth  woidd  know  nor  castes  nor  classes 
Which  now  pervert  it. 

Republics  are,  our  own  but  is, 

(What  care  I  for  your  ridicule  ?) 
A    light  advance  on  monarchies, 
Or  despot  ride. 

ye  toilers  !    be  unswayed  by  priests, 

Be  unseduced  by  phrases  sweet, 

Be  not  the  fools  to  make  the  feasts 

That  others  eat. 

Poor  men  submit  to  priestly  hoaxing, 
Receiving  maxims  with  assurance, 
Cozened  by  Paley's  purchased  coaxing 
To  grim  endurance; 


27 


Paley  was  rich,  well  fed,  and  fat, 

And  had  two  thousand  pounds  a  year, 
But  he  was  not  content  with  that ; — 
It  doth  appear 


He  wished  a  mitre  on  his  head, 

And  '  eonseienee  he  could  not  afford 
To  have.'    I've  quoted  what  he  said, 
Let 's  take  his  word. 


A  strong  suspect  my  spirit  stuns. 

That  there  is  lore  I  can't  attain. 
The  occult  lore  of  chosen  ones, 

Who  rule  and  reign." 

—  Th'imaginary  toiler  woke 

The  Cynic's  fancies  venomous, 
And  then  to  me  again  he  spoke 

In  substance  thus  : — 


u  O  parson !   stop  your  prate  and  boast, 

Don't  apotheosize  the  man 
Who  did  not  die  at  duty's  post, 
In  duty's  van. 


28 


Why  thus  disgrace  your  sacred  gown 

And  be  religion's  empirics  ? 
Why  drag  our  high  religion  down 
For  politics  ? 

Afraid  to  speak  'gainst  sin  and  pride  ? 

'Gainst  impious  men  of  high  renown  ? 
If  courage  fails,  then  throw  aside 

The  sacred  gown. 

Poor  and  obscure  are  those  who  fought 

Amid  the  ranks  of  great  divisions, 
Reward  or  fame  were  robbed  or  bought 
By  politicians. 

And  deeds  were  done  of  bravest  sin 
By  privates  poor  that  badly  stank, 
While  coward  dolts  who  had  rich  kin 
Had  general's  rank. 

Reports  and  papers  puff  and  tell 

Of  wealthy  dolts  as  brave  and  great, 
When  these  same  dolts  the  very  smell 
Of  powder  hate. 


A  CYNIC. 

Privates  return,  though  brave  and  skilled, 

To  natal  towns  without  parade, 
For  them  no  fatted  calf  is  killed, 

No  fuss  is  made. 


The  drunken  colonel  what  awaits  ? 
Or  brigadier  as  dumb  as  mules  ? 
Why,  grand  receptions,  banquets,  fetes, 
And  cheers  from  fools. 


He  went  to  war,  a  martial  quack, 

To  steal,  and  not  the  foe  to  slash, 
Patched  up  his  character,  came  back 
With  fame  and  cash. 


Came  back  with  his  rum-hued  proboscis, 

And  character  repaired  anew, 
To  take  his  chance  for  some  fat  office, 
And  get  it  too. 

Land  of  my  birth !    I  love  thee  well ! 

Land  of  my  sires !    Land  of  the  free ! 
No  feeling  can  my  bosom  swell 

Untrue  to  thee. 


30  SNARL   OF 

Yet  I  am  sad  our  men  run  wild. 

So  shoulder  straps  can  nile  the  roast, 
While  better  men  are  thus  exiled 

From  honor's  post. 

The  clowns  will  fight  and  tear  their  hair, 

Two  office-seekers  to  promote, 
When  neither  for  the  clowns  doth  care 
Except  their  vote. 

Our  legislation  is  controlled 

By  rogues  with  fraud  and  shrewd  devices ; 
Law-maker's  votes  are  bought  and  sold 
At  various  prices. 


The  public  good,  my  mind  recalls, 

Once  moved  the  patriot's  zeal  and  passion, 
But  now  in  legislative  halls 

Quite  out  of  fashion. 

The  State 's  a  humbug  top  to  toe. 

And  fraud  and  cunning  are  the  winners, 
Toor,  honest  men  have  not  a  show, 

Let's  call  'em  sinners. 


31 


I  want  no  fame,  I'm  poor,  ill  bred, 
Farewell  to  fame !   I  cannot  win  it : 

My  purse  like  Jerry 's  head, 

Has  nothing  in  it. 

Put  money  in  your  purse,  ye  bards ! 
Be  that  the  end  of  your  ambition ! 
Then  YOU  can  win  the  world's  regards 
And  recognition. 

A  puree-proud  dunce  the  patron  may 
Enact ; — the  price  I'm  sad  to  say  it. 
Is  flatten*,  which  some  poets  pay. 

And  let  them  pay  it. 

When  fawning  wins  the  dolt's  regard, 
And  wins  the  patron  with  its  spell, 
Let  fame's  applause  go  to  the  bard 

Who  fawns  so  well. 


32 


Poor,  simple  race !    you  are  forestalled, 

You  vainly  strive  at  fame  to  dutch ; — 
I  mean  that  race  politely  called 

"  Benighted  Dutch."  * 

Perhaps,  'tis  true,  my  lyre  doth  squeak, 
Since  city  club  my  song  ne'er  suffers, 
That  mutual  admiration  clique 

Of  well-trained  puffers. 

A  school-girl,  whose  papa  is  rich, 

(Important  point,)  writes  silly  chapters, 
O'er  which  her  clique  will  take  a  twitch 
Of  puffing  raptures. 

Her  moony  stuff,  sans  sense  or  pith, 

Her  wealthy  friends  will  read  and  drone 
In  splendid  parlors,  scented  with 
Eau  de  Cologne. 


#  VIDE  William  C.  Bryant's  New  York  Evening  Post  of 
January  2, 1857,  in  which  the  Pennsylvania  Dutch  are  held 
up  to  scorn  as  a  benighted  people,  who  must  first  be  taught 
to  read,  ere  they  will  know  how  te  vote. 


38 


Her  silly  prose  or  sicklier  rhyme 

Are  in  her  clique's  newspapers  printed, 
And  she  is  famous  for  the  time 

With  puffs  unstinted. 

The  school  of  Lakers,  staid  and  prim, 

Each  other  puffed,  (did  you  e'er  read  it  ?) 
Coleridge  was  one,  alas !   for  him, 

He  did  not  need  it. 

The  city  cliques  and  coteries 

Are  mutual  admiration  clubs, 
And  cunning  manufactories 

Of  famous  grubs. 

'T  is  true  these  grubs  at  death  go  down 

From  proud  distinction's  eminence, 
But  they  through  life  enjoy  renown 
And  consequence. 

The  bard  from  paths  of  fame  withdraws, 

Since  there  the  grubs  by  thousands  stray, 
Impediments  to  worth,  because 

They  clog  the  way. 


'T  is  sad,  that  bards,  the  true  elect, 

Untasting  fame,  their  worth  unprized, 
Remain  for  years  in  chill  neglect, 
Unrecognized. 

A  rustic  youth,  perchance  quite  poor, 

Writes  faulty  verse,  but  bold,  sincere, 
His  recompense  but  silence,  or 

At  most  a  sneer. 


Poor  merit  withers  sad  and  lone 

In  cold  neglect  in  this  our  land. 
Because  it  gets  no  cheering  tone, 

No  helping  hand. 

I'm  soured,  and  I  dare  aver  it, 

I  want  the  milk  of  human  kindness, 
When  I  perceive  that  cliques  to  merit 
Affect  a  blindness. 

My  mood  is  fierce  whene'er  I  see 

The  fulsome  puffs  on  verses  weak, 
Whose  writer  is  of  high  degree, 

And  hath  a  clique. 


35 


'T  is  then  my  mood  is  fierce,  indeed, 
I  feel  like  having  cliques  uprooted, 
Satirically  pilloried, 

Or  executed. 

I  thought  by  merit  all  were  rated, 
My  honest  nature  taught  me  so, 
But  I  was  unsophisticated — 

Quite  green  you  know. 

The  publisher  can  make  the  bard, 

And  buys  the  fame  because  it  pays, 
And  humble  worth  is  thus  debarred 
Of  poet's  bays. 

Renown  's  enjoyed  by  empirics 

Through  Boston  schemes  in  club  and  sect, 
And  that  Xew  Yorkers  know  the  tricks, 
I  half  suspect. 


The  city  bards  that  hear  the  plays 

Know  cheap  claptraps  that  shake  the  house, 
While  stronger  bards  by  rustic  ways 

Can't  smell  a  mouse. 


36  SNAKL  OF 

We  country  bards  are  green  as  grass, 

The  elephant  we  never  saw, 
Wejiever  looked  through  opera  glass, 
We  're  much  too  raw. 


In  Fashion's  ranks  we  never  bloomed, 
Or  in  gay  garb  displayed  our  parts, 
Our  handkerchiefs  are  unperfumed 
Except  by ." 

—  He  ceased  his  snarl.    1  knew  my  aid 

Was  useless  for  his  mind's  relief, 
And  as  the  night  was  late,  I  made 

My  answer  brief: — 

"  Executive  ability 

You  need.     An  indolence  disgusting 
Is  your  great  fault.    In  privacy, 

Your  soul  is  rusting. 

With  smoke,  and  drink,  and  reverie, 

You  fritter  precious  life  away, 
Pass  gloomy  days,  forego  all  glee, 
And  hate  the  gay. 


37 


Remember  this,  there  are  but  few 

That  do  not  feel  life's  alternations ; 
To  days  of  joy,  grim  nights  ensue 

With  lamentations. 

When  darksome  night  rests  on  the  homes 

By  Huron's  lake  or  Michigan, 
The  gorgeous  day  gleams  on  the  domes 
Of  Ispahan. 

Along  this  healthful  mountain  glen 

Stern  winter's  glooms  not  always  rest, 
For  bonny  June  will  come  again 

lu  splendor  drest. 

Then  dream  along  the  woodland  rill, 

And  fancies  weave  hi  mountain  glen, 
And  you  may  build  a  rhyme  that  will 
Astonish  men. 

Your  soul  hath  far  too  much  of  hate 

For  politicians  and  the  priests, 
And  envy  for  the  nabob's*  tate, 

And  pleasure's  feasts. 


Your  jaundiced  eye  all  men  hath  clad 

With  knavery,  but  you  mistake  them, 
Bad  men  there  are,  but  not  all  bad, 

As  you  would  make  them. 

Your  views  of  life  are  sadly  wrong, 

And  men  and  things  to  you  unknown, 
For  honest  men  are  in  the  throng, 

And  on  the  throne. 


There  is  one  thing  makes  life  sublime, 
That  honest  men  to  earth  are  given ; 
The  noblest  gift  in  realms  of  Time, 

This  side  of  Heaven. 


If  you  possess  the  poet's  key, 

You  can  unlock,  in  soul  enthrone  them, 
More  pleasures  in  the  woods  you  see, 

Than  those  who  own  them. 

The  arts,  man's  treasured  heritage ! 

Around  life's  pathway  still  must  fling 
Sweet  blooms  in  this  material  age, 

When  Trade  is  King. 


39 


The  gracing  arts  can  never  die : — 

Ply  painter's  brush,  or  poet's  pen, 
Or  earth 's  a  desert,  or  a  sty, 

Or  savage  den. 

Faint  not  in  life's  important  fight, 

But  put  the  hero's  armor  on, 
And  soon  shall  gleam  in  glory's  light, 
Thy  gonfalon! 

Mid  all  chagrins  of  this  our  life, 

Though  passions  fume  and  rogues  will  plan, 
Be  honest,  brave — in  storm  or  strife, 
Be  thou  a  man ! 


O  bard !   let  Right  thy  soul  expand, 

Guard  well  the  earnest  of  thy  youth, 
Brave  be  thy  heart  and  strong  thy  hand, 
To  strike  for  Truth ! 


Though  Rank  treats  bards  as  underlings, 
Yet  their  renown  shall  bloom,  I  trust, 
When  Bishops,  Presidents,  and  Kings, 
Are  fameless  dust. 


40 


True  poets  ne'er  are  disappointed, 

Because  shut  out  from  rich  men's  feasts, 
For  poets  are  the  Lord's  Anointed, 

And  Truth's  High-Priests.' 

—  I  ceased.    He  smiled  with  scornful  leer 
As  though  a  school-boy  had  declaimed, 

He  looked  as  if  I  were  small-beer, 

And  then  exclaimed : — 

"  Your  talk  is  rant  and  rigmarole, 

Mere  ad  captandum  froth  and  foam. 
Which  may  deceive  some  silly  soul 

In  famed  Buncombe." 

—  I  left  him  to  his  lonely  cell, 
Barren  in  love  and  fond  caresses, 

In  my  bright  home  to  ponder  well, 
His  bitternesses. 


I  briefly  have  condemned  the  strain 

The  Cynic  used ; — although  forsooth 
His  talk,  my  friends,  is  not  in  vain, 
If  it  have  truth. 


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